Oh Clever, Clever, Where's Your Heart?
by Unread-Letters
Summary: They were too much alike for their own good. Secret liaisons can only lead to horrible ends. A story about the love affair between Charles Brandon and Anne Boleyn. Rated T for language. On hiatus indefinitely.
1. Chapter One: Oh Clever, Clever

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot, that's all mine. Everything else belongs to Michael Hirst and anyone else involved in Shotime's "The Tudors." "Oh clever, clever, where's your heart" belongs to Jawbreaker.**

**Author's Note: It has been a very long time since I have written anything of consequence so right now this story is purely trial and error for me. I started watching the Tudors about a month ago and completely fell in love with Anne Boleyn and Charles Brandon and could not ignore the tension between them. I appreciate any and all criticism and cheers for reading!**

**Oh Clever, Clever, Where's Your Heart?**

**By: Unread Letters**

"_There's a point to this. A point I think I often miss. Oh clever, clever, where's your heart?"_

He scolds himself immediately for thinking about her beauty. If that is all he can think of on a day like this than he truly is a bastard. But she does look beautiful. And brave. He's had an image of her in his head for months now. A distorted image full of greed and sex and self-preservation but all he sees now is a courageous, beautiful woman going to her death. She does not face it gently but reverently, as if Death himself needed her permission. If only he had been so courageous. But he was not. He was petty and jealous and green with envy. It was as if a parade of those seven sins had taken place within him. He had been the one to go to the King. He had been the spy. He need not spy. He knew first hand that she had been with others. His loyalty to the King should have made way for honesty. He should have shown courage. If he had been as courageous as she, that blade would be meeting his neck not hers. He tears his eyes away from her and looks down at his son. The little boy's eyes are watching her intently. They are quivering with fright and the onset of tears.

She speaks and he hangs on her every word; the way her mouth forms around each letter; the way every sound resonates on her lips. She is in her element; controlling the crowd as she was always destined to do. It's a bit of a morbid joke, really. Although, there is nothing droll about it. The peasants in the crowd come to watch the spectacle. They come to jeer and snigger and gossip about what a wretched, scarlet woman she is or _was_. But, as is her fashion, she captivates them just as she captivated him.

He is so intent on her that he doesn't notice the crowd beginning to kneel. It is as if the crowd is one entity separating them, keeping him and her apart. Being on the other side of the crowd is like being on the other side of the world. It isn't until he feels his son's shoulder leave his palm that he realizes the crowd, including the boy, are lowering themselves to the ground. One entity making one motion. He meets her gaze for a moment before he begins to kneel himself. Her eyes flicker over him and he knows that she understands. They have gone beyond everything: circumstance, titles, position, society, even God and have come to one conclusion. They were in love, once, ages ago but it happened and it was happening again, here on this dreadful day. Before divorce and treason and bloodlust, the adulterous Duke of Suffolk loved the King's whore.


	2. Chapter Two: I Call It Sluttering

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot, that's all mine. Everything else belongs to Michael Hirst and anyone else involved in Shotime's "The Tudors." "Oh clever, clever, where's your heart" and "I call it sluttering" belong to Jawbreaker.**

**Author's Note: The first chapter was fairly short so I thought I would put up the second chapter at the same time. The point of the story is going to flip back and forth between Anne and Charles. I'm still in the process of doing some research just to make sure I stay as true to the television show as possible. So please excuse any canon mistakes and do not hesitate to point them out. Cheers for reading!**

**Oh Clever, Clever, Where's Your Heart?**

**Chapter Two: I Call It Sluttering**

**By: Unread Letters**

"_I made a word to give this state a name, this game a guess. I call it sluttering."_

Charles Brandon was unimpressed. The travel into French territory was supposed to be amusing, at least. But it was just another disappointment for the man who always expected too much. The castle of illusions, or whatever it was called, was true to it's name, an illusion of grandeur.

The King's feelings seemed to reflect Charles' slightly. Charles watched as the King spoke to Francis. His jaw was set and Charles knew that Henry was biting his tongue, choosing his words carefully. Charles scanned the room, looking for his next conquest. A lady with pretty yellow hair sat at the other end of the room. Perhaps her. She would do.

He sighed as he got up and concentrated on his target. She noticed his attention and caught his eye ever so slightly. She bit her lip innocently and he smiled to himself. Yes, she would break the monotony quite nicely.

Charles woke with a start the next morning and immediately noticed the lack of feeling in his right arm. His memory resurfaced as he slightly readjusted the girl and skillfully removed his arm from her grasp. She began to stir but he whispered something comforting and made his way out of her room. He was quite busy tying the laces of his trousers when he walked into a girl who was just as busy readjusting her dress. Her blue eyes widened in shock but not in embarrassment as he had expected.

"Pardon me, your Grace." The girl said with a slight curtsey.

"Pardon me, miss." Charles said returning the gesture. She began to walk away and he couldn't help his curiosity. "Turning in a little late, aren't you?"

She stopped and turned towards him. Her eyebrow was raised and she was attempting to hide the smile at her lips. "That must be the fashion. Your Grace." She curtseyed dramatically, turned on her heel, and walked away.

Charles chuckled lightly to himself, shook his head, and returned to his room.

….

The French court was beginning to take its toll on Anne. She was dreadfully bored. Life had become rather mundane and she had hoped that the arrival of King Henry and his court would liven things. It had a little. The gossip changed from Francis and his men to that of Henry and his. The ladies thrived on the gossip of men. They giggled amongst themselves, never admitting their discretions but hinting to the liaisons that they all were guilty of having. The addition of Englishmen into the court had given the ladies new targets.

It is to be said that the King himself was the most handsome. His eyes were like ice but when he smiled they seemed to melt a bit. Mary had pointed this out to Anne the first evening he had arrived. Anne knew Mary was fickle and wasted time with such trivialities but Mary had seen something Anne began to notice herself. Henry's men were just as handsome. The ladies discussed them all. A few had been incredibly taken with the tall, dark-haired Duke of Suffolk. He had been quite the topic for a few days, partially because his conquests were rather proud at being invaded.

Anne had yet to speak to anyone in the King's court but her curiosity was getting the best of her. She had heard rumors that the King had been asking about Mary and Anne knew it was only a matter of time before Mary became his mistress. King Francis had grown tired of Anne some time ago but she cleverly kept her place in court while her sister took her place with the King.

She had awoken early one morning and snuck quietly out of the Duke of Normandy's bedchamber, taking great caution not to wake the Duke. She was adjusting the final wrinkle in her dress when she walked into something quite solid. Her collision was met with a slight "oomph." She met the gaze of the infamous Duke of Suffolk a little startled but nothing more. He was rather handsome she had to admit.

She apologized quickly, waited for his reply, then went on her way. His comment as she was leaving caught her off guard. None of the Frenchmen in court had ever been so abrupt in public but here was this Englishmen (who was not even of noble blood, the rumors said) questioning her honor. She should have slapped him, or walked away, or pointed out his indiscretion but when she looked him over, thinking of something to say, she couldn't help but noticed that his trousers weren't laced all the way.

"That must be the fashion, Your Grace," escaped her lips before she could bit her tongue. She knew her flippant remark could cause trouble but the slight guffaw she heard as she walked away removed any worried thoughts. Perhaps this Duke of Suffolk was somewhat of a kindred spirit, as Mary would say.


End file.
